I don't play video games or do anything involving interaction with those who don't understand, don't want to understand, won't [ever] understand, cannot understand that this is how our twisted world works. I try not to wake the dormant rage sleeping in my bones like a feral beast, some lithe lethal six-armed war goddess of terror and the winds of unpredictability, goes by A Revolutionary's Fury. That lady will steal common sense and all manners, swipe your self-control and make you dance at her whim, a puppet made of mincemeat and dreams. She got a third eye, she got a river for a soul, she got a pet tiger who can **** the strongest dragons and whip up clouds that obscure reason. Fury's a scary lady and I'm not going to hand over the reins.

ah, the anonymity of virtualization. a place where words are broken into bits and therefore harder to trip on. if only I was so eloquent in meatspace. some have achieved a subtleslick lethal elegant, a fluid flowing smooth-like-butter love affair with words. writing, like seduction, takes practice and street smarts to master. my relationship with words is fragile-soft shy. young love, cautious and sweet. a virginal coyness; the words maddeningly slip through my fingers like dreamsand. I chase after the right words through hyperbolic forests, slay dragons, kiss her (what else would Language be?) soft and hard, love her wrong and love her right. but girls leave you, always, starstruck and drunk with love or infatuation or lust or all three. Even language. even language.

everything is arbitrary. we novelists survive on chance encounters and sad books. I move like a stray cat between library bookshelves and keep my head down. no I am not a poet by choice. no I don't like being one. I don't like bleeding. it hurts and so does writing sometimes. sometimes writing hurts less than usual. fate is still pale and thin and twisty, like the tentative whorls of a mushroom's root system. I'm still like a stray cat, nosing around libraries and parks. I'm still hungry. this book still doesn't make sense. I don't feel like I learned much. mostly I feel tired, like the tiredness is pulling down into the pillow. maybe I should sleep. maybe I shouldn't.

what's inside?
a fish? a duck? a bird of paradise? candy? lizards?
or something more exotic -
a dragon?
a platypus?
a firebird?
pterodactyl? sea serpent? roc?
maybe a village, or a girl, or a death, or all three?
eggs are wild cards. fate puts a baby [_] inside, and it claws its way out when gets impatient of sitting pretty. we are all basically eggs waiting to assume a shape and shake off a shell of past dreams and childhood nicknames.
yes they're delicate. so they can break apart when needed. so they can enclose themselves gently around a realm of potential, but it is a maze, not a prison. escape is the ultimate end. birth is the ultimate end.